City Beat
by Josh.S.999
Summary: An essay on my experience with a 'once' homeless women, what she went through and how she got through it.


City Beat

Everything seems to be a reminder of _something_ if I think about it long enough. Like this peanut butter on my waffle–odd as it may sound, it takes me to a sunny day at Findlay Market. There was a slight chill running up and down the street that faded when you stepped into the sun. As I went from one shop to another, the random conversations of too many people to count began to create this staccato melody _,_ which evolved as I continued exploring. It was pleasant, quaint even.

The smell of food tempts you from the moment you cross the street, but on this sunny Sunday morning there was a poetry slam being held, _and I was one of the poets performing_. I was nervous, as I am with most social engagements of this nature, so the idea of food just wasn't on my mind. (I was busy running through my poems again and again) But I had time to kill and nothing to do, so after walking around the market 3 or 4 times anxiously waiting for the competition to start, I decided to get food for lack of anything better to do.

On my way in, I met this woman selling a newspaper of some sort– _city beat_ I believe it was. She was an older woman, short and a bit worn in the face but also very bright. Bright as to say her energy was vibrant, if you believe in such a thing, but she stood out against the moving background mixed with people, shops, and cars further down the way.

She smiled, offered me a paper, but I declined (a common event in her field of work I'm sure) and continued into the market. I had seen a few people carrying these _huge_ waffles with peanut butter on them around and after seeing the fourth or fifth one in someone else's hands, I promptly decided it was time I got a waffle into my hands as well.

When it was finally my turn to order I didn't get one waffle though, but two. It wasn't because I was starving or anything, but rather this very subtle thought that trickled into my head– _buy that woman a waffle_. Why? I couldn't tell you, but I went ahead and bought it without another thought. When I got outside to start looking for her (as fate would have it) there she was, sitting on a bench not but 30 feet from where I came out.

Writing about it now, I didn't even notice how _'non-random'_ that really was, but I digress. I headed over and just sat down next to her, handed the second waffle to her and said that, if she wanted, I had gotten it for her. She lit up, smiled and happily took it–clearly surprised by the fortuitous waffle being presented to her. I couldn't help but to smile with her, and our conversation kind of, _happened,_ after that.

I think people, when given the chance, like talking about themselves quite a bit and maybe writing is my way of doing the same. Who knows, but this is immediately what she began to do– _not that I minded, I enjoy listening to others more than talking anyways_. We exchanged names and subsequently began talking about why she worked at the market, how she had gotten there–things of that nature. These topics quickly moved from casual dialogue to a story most people wouldn't be comfortable talking about to others, particularly strangers, but I'll let her story speak for itself.

When she was young, her father left her family and she, along with her cousin or sister (or both), ended up being raised by her mother. It feels like growing up in a single-parent household is becoming more and more common, but it's certainly not ideal regardless of one's economic or social standing. She fell on the latter end of this spectrum, meaning she had _less_ opposed to more and lived in the inner city all her life. She had plenty of family though, and it seemed, from her perspective at least, that this did provide her some form of comfort growing up.

I say _'some'_ form of comfort because her family also provided her an ample dose of pain as well. One of her uncles, who she sees relatives of to this day, rapped her when she was teenager. Please excuse the casual tone in which I say this, because it's exactly how she spoke about it with me. She was very candid with this personal fact, almost to the point of freaking me out. _Who in the world is this blunt about an experience so personal?_ I found her ability to speak on the subject with such ease to be uncanny–unlike anything I had ever heard before.

I asked her how that impacted her life, if it was why she was homeless and she reprimanded me right on the spot. "I'm not homeless anymore," she clarified with a smile that diffused the seriousness in her tone. "Now that I sell these I was able to get an apartment right down the street." She meant no harm in the way she said it, and I took no offense. But it made me feel the pride she took in being able to put a roof over her head–something I don't really think about, to be as honest as her.

After she was raped, she told me guilt and shame were the predominant emotions that governed her day-to-day experience. _Shame, especially shame–_ I remember her saying that word a lot throughout our conversation.She didn't talk to anyone for over a year about what happened, but eventually found the courage to bring it up to her mother–and she didn't believe her! Her mother even accused her of flirting with the uncle that did it.

This was an omen of things come, and her life got progressively more & more toxic in the days ahead. After being forced into a corner (emotionally) she ran away from home and _never did_ go back. She spent years on and off the streets, _but not once did she talk to anyone else about her past_. She was in her late 50's when I met her, so by my estimates she may have spent as many as 35 years living like this–I didn't dig for any more details though, just listened. She admitted that the shame never did leave, that it stayed with her no matter how shitty life got, and it felt like–like a weight, as if a boulder was always looming over her head. Dull, benign at times, but always there.

Not to long before we met, she came to Findlay Market to get some food and ran into someone, who, after talking, ended up bearing witness to her completely fall to pieces. She told them everything she had been through, from being raped to being homeless and the general plight that comes with such a lifestyle. She spoke on her struggles to find and keep a job, and how some of these struggles, at times, felt like a leash from her past holding her back. She let the water flow, if you will, through the levees keeping a lifetime of emotions locked up within her.

Being able to completely let go like this ended up being a major pivot in her life. She told me there was something liberating about her newfound peace-of-mind, that it was like the freedom to breathe had finally been given back. From there, a few threads of fate fell into place and not to long after that she had the job at which I met her. We chatted idly for a bit longer, but the poetry slam was getting started so we parted ways. She ended up giving me a copy of her paper and a hug too; as I said, she's a very nice person!

As for the Poetry Slam, it _wasn't_ a fiasco, so I took it as a win, but the real takeaway was my time with her. Listening to her speak so freely about all the years she spent in the thick of her emotions and how she persevered was inspiring. It reminded me there is no age limit on our pursuit of happiness and to just, be more grateful for the little things–like a roof over my head, and the inclination of a dream I have and still get to fight for.


End file.
